


Killing Time

by cathouse_mary



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Crossdressing, Desk Sex, Dominance, Established Relationship, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Multi-chapter shinigami-centered fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Killing Time: Chapter 1

Killing Time  
Title: Killing Time, Chapter 1

Author: Cathouse Mary

Pairing/Characters: Grell/William with a history, Alan Humphries cameo appearance.

Rating: M

Summary: Working late, Grell brings Will evidence that they are owed a hell of a lot of overtime - some two centuries of it.

Warnings: Grell in non-regulation unmentionables. Biting and nail-play. Dirty talk. Desk sex. Dominance.

~

 

The halls were quiet enough that the swish of red wool and the scent of attar of roses alerted him before anything else.

“Really, Will, you should suspend me more often. I find the most interesting things.”

Mastering his sudden urge to hammer his head on the desk, William Spears instead raised his gaze from the paperwork on his blotter to Grell Sutcliff, who was striking a very penny dreadful femme fatale pose in his office doorway.

“You’re on suspension, again. With no pay, again. Demoted, again, assigned to sweeping the library, and not supposed to be here at all, much less after hours.” William regarded his pet perpetual problem with accustomed severity - which slid off Grell much like water from a duck’s back. “I could assign you to cleaning the toilets.”

“Mmm... so cruel.” Grell actually looked pleased at the prospect, removing that ridiculous red coat and hanging it from the rack by the door. How did that twisty mind of his work? “Will you supervise personally while I’m on my hands and knees?”

“No. Your misbehaviour costs me enough inconvenience, overtime and explanations to higher management.” Will picked up his pen and swiftly marked off his expenses for the week. “Back to the broom, and this time actually sweep with it instead of lounging on it.”

“But I really did find something this time, Will. In fact, it’s... well. Here.” The record in question was shoved under his nose and-

That was simply not possible.

He re-read it.

And read it once more, just to be sure.

It was a hasty note scratched on the flyleaf of the record, not something official, and it consisted of four names: W. Speeres/G. Soutclyf,/A. Hommfrees/E. Slingbee. Anno Domini 1666 - plague and fyre. “I don’t see how that’s possible. 1666?”

“That’s not all. Puzzle this one.” Grell licked a red-nailed finger and turned back through the record to page one.

“Hm.” Will adjusted his glasses, taking the record from Grell and setting it down, reading, then paging through in honest puzzlement. He’d never seen the like of it. The lines of the record formed and unformed on the pages here and there, fluctuating and sometimes erasing entirely, only to rewrite and break apart again. Moreover, it was not a misprint on the first and last pages, it could not be, as a misprint of a start or end date in the record was categorically impossible. The disorder evident in this phenomenon offended William’s sense of order. A record was a record, immutable and eternal.

If there was one anomaly, might there be others lurking on the shelves? Demonic interference was out. No demon came into Akash willingly, not with sharp Reaper noses and even sharper Deathscythes at the ready. Angelic interference - amend - fallen angelic interference was a possibility. Run-of-the-mill angels tended to drop like conkers, causing no end of trouble in any realm they could reach, and the Archangels were even more understaffed than the Reapers.

“We’ll need to commence an investigation immediately.” At the very least, and it would have to start within their own ranks.

Grell brightened. “This means I’m off suspension, right?”

“If we were not so incredibly shorthanded in this office, you’d be cleaning toilets - remember that.” He opened the file of investigation initiation forms to start the process, and locked the defective record in his file drawer. “Give me a single bit of trouble and you’ll be cleaning them with your hairbrush.”

Grell flushed - not guiltily, never guiltily - and shut the door behind him with a discreet click. “Cold man.” Another click as he shot the bolt and then leaned against the door in a lewd stance, unbuttoning his waistcoat (nonregulation) and pulling his tie (also nonregulation) loose. “You have to know by now what that does to me.”

“It’s fairly obvious, yes.” Will looked him over. Very, very obvious. There was also the matter of what Grell did to him. It was much like the strange sport that the humans engaged in that consisted of waving a red blanket at an angry and uncastrated bovine. He steepled his fingers, regarding Grell sharply over them. “You have no shame at all. No standards. You are lewd and forward, even willing to consort with demons.”

“Jealous?” Grell moaned low, rubbing one hand over the ridge rising under the wool of his (regulation, for once) trousers, the other undoing the buttons of his wilting white shirt. William pushed through the breath that wanted to catch in his chest, quashing the hungry growl that wanted to come with it.

“Harlot.” It could have been an endearment, a tender caress. Wait. No. It could not have been a caress or endearment, because Grell paid less attention to those than to the floor under those boots (nonregulation and in nonregulation colors and with high heels!). “Strumpet. Flaunting yourself in red, exposing yourself.”

Grell took that as a fine idea, red-nailed fingers moved on a belt buckle, slipping it loose, then undoing straining buttons to show (very nonregulation) red lace knickers and a violently erect sex. “Will...” The drag of sharp teeth on lower lip as Grell slid a hand under the scanty red lace. “Want you...”

Yes, Will knew what he did to Grell, because Grell knew what he did to Will.

“Touch yourself.” The effort to keep his voice cold was a massive one. He ached, burning with the passion of a god, and the press of his linen against his sex was a torment. “Come here and show me up close.”

“You sssay such sweet things, Will.” But come he did, wobbling just a little in the heeled boots - a lewd sight with trousers sliding off narrow hips and lean thighs.

Lean thighs in stockings and garters.

Garters in red and black satin (surpassingly nonregulation and disturbingly arousing).

“Always something new with you, isn’t it?” William mused, tugging the trousers down for a more thorough look. Silk. The stockings were silk and warm under his hands. He slid the trousers down Grell’s legs to his ankles, indicating that Grell should step out of them. “What else are you hiding? Prancing around the library in tarty underthings. Not a bit of honest linen on you, is there?”

Yes, waving the red flag at the bull indeed. Will loosened his belt, unfastening his buttons to ease the constriction. Grell’s eyes were going softly glassy as Will explored, sliding his hands upward from the flange of hipbones to encounter...

“What is...?” Something like a cuirass? Vertical bands of armor? “Off with it.” Will did not give Grell the chance to obey, instead peeling the undone shirt and waistcoat off him whole so that he could see this latest bit of mischief. While he did not actually need to breathe, the garment underneath did leave him a little breathless and a magnitude harder. “You perverse thing. What am I to do with you?”

Right around the bend. It wasn’t a case of Grell being twisted, but well and truly bent like a corkscrew. A red brocade corset, fit for any girl in a high-priced molly-house, and tightlaced to a curve not normally present on males.

Grell, despite looking glassy-eyed and about to spend, looked all too pleased with himself.

William smacked his arse, leaving a pink imprint under the red lace. “What am I to do with you? You’re incorrigible.” Of course William knew what to do with him and what Grell wanted done - his desk was a terminal mess now in any case. He stood, hooking his fingers into the lace knickers, pulling them down and then lifting Grell bare-buttocked onto the blotter.

“Pot to kettle, Will. You’re so hard that you must have been thinking about fucking me like this all day.” Grell spread his legs wide, as redhaired below as above. “You’re so over-dressed for this occasion. I want your skin.”

The chances of anyone being in this part of the building after hours were low, and his office had been given soundproofing because of the need to issue his more scorching reprimands in private. He loosened his tie and removed it, hanging it carefully on the back of his chair.

“Honestly. You are not in any place to be making demands, considering current circumstance.” The buttons of his waistcoat and then his shirt, removing them one after the other to hang with the tie. “You are completely out of uniform.” Leave alone the concept that he’d removed it personally. “As opposed to being out of compliance, which is more usual...” The shoes went next, toed off and kicked a little under the desk, and perhaps he was a little less methodical in removing his trousers and stockings than he might have been previously, as Grell was openly stroking himself, one thumb swirling over the glans, fingers playing on the shaft. His underlinen left for parts unknown as he stepped between Grell’s wantonly splayed legs.

Legs in stockings. Silk ones that rubbed against his skin. His breath caught again. “Rantipole.”

“Will?” Grell husked, twining around him, then nipping his jaw sharply. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

The kiss was brutal, hungry, bruising, with Grell’s hands grabbing at Will’s arse and pulling him close. Grell liked to bite in atavistic ecstasy when aroused, so each kiss was a chance at getting a surprise piercing or losing a lip - an exercise in both danger and desire. Fingernails traced swirling trails up and down his back. Wait. Confound it. What did he have to-

“Vest pocket. Little bottle.” Grell nipped him again. “I’m always prepared, Will.”

“I’m locking you in a chastity belt.” Will stretched, rummaging out the bottle and fiddling the cap off with his thumb. ”Your licentiousness is endless.” For which William was more than occasionally grateful.

“You’ve been threatening me with that for eighty years.” Grell langorously pleasured himself again as William upended the bottle into his palm and applied the slick stuff to his sex. “Until you do, it’s all promises, promises. Oh, Will, you look so bloody good...” Grell leaned back on his elbows, hips canting up in invitation. “Have me. Now.”

Rule one of Handling Grell was Do Not Immediately Give Grell What Grell Wants. William’s Corollary to that rule was First Drive Him Mad.

Not that it was a long trip. No, not at all. Grell’s thighs looked well in sheer red silk, and were eminently touchable, a tactile pleasure. There was little difference between the texture of skin and silk to William’s sense. Even his buttocks were smooth, tight. You could bounce a penny off them - or smack them to a glowing red the same colour as his hair. Will squeezed them in pleasure, Grell writhing and calling him vile names. Will nipped hard at the soft skin at the join of thigh and buttock, sliding his fingers into Grell’s cleft and then raising an eyebrow at the slickness already there.

“Quiet, your moaning would wake the dead.” Will fingered him open, the heat of him burning like fever. “Planning ahead, were you?”

“Always prepared.”

Will rose, pushing Grell’s legs back and then entering roughly into that slick heat, his senses aflame as Grell crossed his ankles over the small of William’s back. “Like that?”

“Yessss, oh be cruel...” It was twisted, or it should have been, that with Grell cruelty was kindness and kindness cruelty. They could be so incredibly bad for one another, at the same time so good. Grell was far from the passive receiver, and there was as much fight as fuck in their couplings. He moved in counter to Will, squeezing tight and riding as hard as William. As desire consumed them both, they reverted to their primitive origins - breathing heavily, growling, hearts pounding, the scent of pheromonal sweat saturating the air around them.

Bending Grell almost double, William risked life and lip to steal a hard kiss from the wild thing.

Grell writhed, digging perfect nails in hard to the small of his back, ripping them up his shoulders again and again, spurring Will’s hips to snap harder as pain and pleasure whited out his vision with their intensity. “Bitch!”

“Yes!” Growled in a tone that went straight to Will’s balls, Grell’s legs squeezing his torso as he bucked into William’s thrusts. “Wiiiiiiiiiillyoubastard fuck me damn you doithardergoingto - ohohohfffffuck!”

“Make a mess, Grell, come come for me come with me fucking you.” Will rasped, hoping that the soundproofing was as good as he’d been told, because Grell in release was an incomparable sight. Hair wild, eyes closed and back arched, giving full voice as Will matched stroke to thrust, wringing every drop from him, hold back until Grell’s body was soft, lush and open under him.

“Come on, Will,” Grell urged. “Come on, lover.” Twining. Soft. Yes. His hips twisted and snapped harder, the need a tight, white-hot coil from navel to cock, the burning lines up his back like brands as he took his pleasure - unable to breathe, see or even speak as he shot.

For a time, there was only the beating of hearts, Grell warm under him, fingers teasing at the back of his neck. After a while, Will realised absently that he was nuzzling Grell’s jaw, stealing kisses from lips curled with an indulgent amusement at his actions. Down the hall, there was the distant sound of the cleaning crew making their way though the offices. His door was locked and the light was on, so Will figured they’d give him a pass until tomorrow, but all the same. “We should go.”

“Mmm. Means you’ll have to get off me.” Grell stretched, then twined again. “At least temporarily.”

“Mm.” Both of them were fuck-drunk and loose-limbed. “In a minute. Was that an invitation?”

“I’ll even scrub your back in the morning.”

Will decided that would not be a bad thing. He eased from Grell slowly, sacrificing his pocket square to the cause of cleaning them both up. “Breakfast?”

“Can be your treat. I like that little place near the fountains.” Grell sat up, eyelids drooping slightly in contentment. “Where’s my tie?”

Dressing took some time, and a small subterfuge to divert the cleaning crew was needed. Grell, however, was on all fours sweeping his hands under the desk, the visitor’s chairs, looking in the bin. Not that Grell on all fours was not a fetching sight, but...

“Will, I can’t find my knickers.” He sat back on his heels, straightening his red wire-rims. “Where could they have gone?

Will finished buttoning his cuffs, then picked up his jacket and gave it a brushing. “They’ll turn up.”

“They cost a week’s pay! They’re from the finest Valenciennes lace-maker in London!”

“You spent a week’s pay on something that you knew you wouldn’t be wearing for more than three minutes? Honestly. Just get your trousers on.” He picked up Grell’s red coat as Grell did so, holding it for him to slip his arms in. “Stop grumbling. Look for them tomorrow. Let’s go.”

Grell sighed, looking around the office one more time. “You’re right. I suppose it’s not as if they’re going to go flying off on their own.” He grinned. “That’s what I have you for, right?”

William clicked off the light and closed the door behind them. “I wasn’t kidding about that chastity belt.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

~

It was all Alan Humphries could do to keep his face straight and his gaze level, to say “Yes, Senior” and “No, Senior” as his superior gave him a little ration of hellfire. Not that it was undeserved, mind. But-

“Dismissed.” Mr. William adjusted his glasses and opened the scheduling book. “The next time you go off wandering London without your partner, I will shackle you to him. You’re not a Junior any longer. You know better.”

For a moment that mental image was almost enough to counter the previous distraction. Alan flushed and hoped it looked like a guilty one as opposed to ‘Oh yes, please do!’

“Yes, Senior. Thank you, Senior.” Alan turned smartly on his heel and retreated to the dispatch room with all due haste, stopping to laugh at least twice. Just wait until he told Eric about the fancy red knickers hanging from the top of the lighting fixture!

~

Author’s Notes:

1\. The realm of the Shinigami or Reapers I’ve called called Akash, for the akashic record. The akashic records are often described as a library on a non-physical plane of existence, containing all knowledge of human experience and the history of the cosmos. I see it as something akin to Borges’ ‘La Biblioteca de Babel’ as well.

It is a realm that diverged or was actively separated by means unknown from what is now the human realm.

2\. In this story, Grell is a throwback - a genetic atavism of the Reaper species.

From Wikipedia:

“Montague Summers, in his translation of the Malleus Maleficarum,[53] notes that red hair and green eyes were thought to be the sign of a witch, a werewolf or a vampire during the Middle Ages;

Those whose hair is red, of a certain peculiar shade, are unmistakably vampires. It is significant that in ancient Egypt, as Manetho tells us, human sacrifices were offered at the grave of Osiris, and the victims were red-haired men who were burned, their ashes being scattered far and wide by winnowing-fans. It is held by some authorities that this was done to fertilize the fields and produce a bounteous harvest, red-hair symbolizing the golden wealth of the corn. But these men were called Typhonians, and were representatives not of Osiris but of his evil rival Typhon, whose hair was red.”


	2. Killing Time, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before. Before the investigation can be commenced, the shift finds out that they’re already looking at overtime.

Killing Time, Chapter 2  
Killing Time

Title: Killing Time, Chapter 2

Author: Cathouse Mary

Pairing/Characters: Grell/William (domestic this chapter), Eric/Alan (Eric UST, Alan UST), Ciel cameo.

Rating: M

Summary: The morning after the night before. Before the investigation can be commenced, the shift finds out that they’re already looking at overtime.

Warnings: Plot development!

Beta: With props to atdelphi - to whom is owed eternal thanks for getting me back on my rusty way.

~

“Look for other anomalies, he said. It should not be hard to spot, he said. It’s only the library, he said. You’ve been sweeping it long enough to know where everything is, he said,” Grell growled to the tiled shower walls, throttling her flannel. “Will, you evil son of a bitch, there will come a day that your hot dominance, exceptional coupling tackle and fucking technique will not save you from my wrath.”

But that day was not today. Not when her spine felt so good and loose, and her arse would give her a delicious reminder of Will’s attentions whenever she walked or sat down. Cold as glacial ice, yes, but he’d left a love bite on her neck, sucked her nipples raw, tied her hands with his tie and threatened her again with being locked into a chastity belt...

Maybe she should be glad that she was somewhat back in his good graces.

It was not the Jack the Ripper incident so much as it was the breaking of the rules. Futures had been riding on those women, on their actions and deeds, and now those futures had been obliterated. Where those women had been there was now nothing but a void, an open wound in the fabric of the human sphere. That humans killed each other all the time was not the point, and that there were unscheduled deaths all the time was not the point. Grell and Angelina had removed from the scheme of things lives that had not been supposed to end in some cases for decades.

Grell had never heard Will raise his voice before that day, but his rage had been... pyroclastic, for lack of a better word.

“Have you lost your mind?” The door had rattled from the sheer volume.

Calmly, she’d asked, “Is that a rhetorical question? Because yes, I think I’ve lost it for true.”

That had brought Will up short, cutting the rage as surely as a scythe. “What?”

Oh, she’d been so calm. It felt so good, almost as if she’d been removed from the body she’d come to hate. “I’ve lost my mind. Best explanation I’ve heard for it. I must have lost my mind.” Then she started to laugh, and that lovely calm was shattering and falling around her in a million jagged, broken pieces.

That memory of what came after that was something Grell had locked up for a bit until she could handle it. Things had become complicated with regard to her penalty. Will had agreed to take her parole, even handled her appeal to higher management personally, so she was tentatively back in the ranks and firmly under his command. She owed him, she knew it, and he made damned sure that she’d remember it. The other Reapers had been giving her a bit of hell, but... well, there was no real malice in it. It was almost as if they were trying to give her back a thick skin, jostle her back into place and make it be all right. They were clods, yes, sometimes right honking idiots - but they were still her clods. Bless them all and beat them with a rusty chainsaw.

Still, there was a fragility inside of her. A strange brittleness that Grell blackly hated. It ground at times like a new-broken bone and she could not make it stop.

“You’re going to be late,” she scolded herself as she turned off the water. “Standing in here all day will not get you any cleaner.”

This was one of the parts she hated the most. The part that made her eyes water and the broken-bone pain of it enough to put her on the bathroom floor, or send her to the opium pipe when bad enough. Sweeping her hair up in a towel, Grell then patted herself dry, wrapping a second towel around her chest and opened the curtain, studiously avoiding the mirror as she put on her glasses.

There was a term for it in the human realm. Very recently humans like her were starting to be studied. “Gynandry.” Angelina had explained that it was a psychiatric maladjustment; Grell only thought she wanted to be female. And, at least for a time, she was able to act the male part with her. She’d even enjoyed it enough to wonder if she was also a sapphist - albeit one with a set of wigwags.

It was... confusing. She was confused.

The mirror reflected back her pale face sans cosmetics and pre-shave. It was hard not to look at her arms and shoulders. Swinging a Deathscythe sculpted particular muscle groups in the shoulders, arms, chest and upper back. Even petite-sized Alan Humphries had some manly arms on him. If her current physique had been on anyone else, Grell could have spared a second look with a whistle and a wink.

On her, it felt as if it did indeed belong to someone else.

Grell cupped her hands a little way out from her chest. There should be... right about here... a pair of nice diddies; not melonesque, just enough for a nice handful. And a nipped in waist right here, slender but not that waspy thing that was back in fashion now. Hips. Would she ever love hips. She was skinny, and while Will had a fixation on her buttocks, they were nothing that she liked on herself. Her legs, Grell thought, were really one of her best features - long and lean, and so she didn’t mind trousers too much.

Then the rest of it. Those bits. Where she felt there ought to be neat rose-petal folds, a hooded clitoris, a plump mound of red curls, there was a penis and a set of testicles. Both were about as much good as tits on a bull - a full atavism was typically sterile. At least she was typical in that one thing. If she’d had to be an atavism, maybe being born with the full set of attributes would have been better - at least she’d have been hermaphroditic.

That brought a grin. What she wouldn’t give to find out what Will would do with that. Will has been the only one who’s made her actually like her bits since she started figuring things out. Like them as in enjoying them beyond the usual can’t-get-to-sleep wank, the I’m-bored wank, the calm-down wank and the like.

Grell paused at the presence of a new thought. Will as a student showed no preference as to male or female couplings. Will as a Reaper kept Grell as his partner even when everyone was advising him to request a replacement. Will as her superior had partnered her with newlings like Ronald Knox, entrusting them to her. Will kept her on, even when others thought he had abundant cause to send her to a liaison office on a big rock in the North Sea. Will in her bed made her feel like... like nothing else. Like nobody else.

Will. Her. Even when she was outwardly a he. Will did not seem to... mind. Grell held the new thought carefully, a very wobbly feeling where the fragile brittleness had been just moments before. Will...

And then she blushed. Gah. That man.

“Ahhh, you silly bastard.” Though which of them was a sillier bastard was open to question. “I’m still not going to go easy on you.” Couldn’t have that. Maybe she’d put on that really red lip colour - the one smuggled in from Paris - and break out her new rose perfume.

There was an impatient knock at the door off the bath.

“Aren’t you ready yet? Honestly.” Grell could almost see the glance from the watch in his hand to the door. “You’ll still want breakfast and we’ll be late.”

~

Eric Slingby stared down the coffee pot and thought it might be nice to install some sort of port in his skull, thereby to apply the coffee directly to his brain. That had been some party with General Affairs last night; he didn’t think he’d bought a drink the whole time. Wee Knox had passed out, been stripped by his fellow Reapers but for his tie, had been written upon in lipstick and kohl, then was auctioned off to the ladies of Supply for drink money. Eric was placing mental wagers as to his condition on arrival for his shift.

The night hadn’t passed without pleasant company for him, either. That lass from Requisitions had been warm and very willing - not to mention very flexible and very wet. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

Alan. Where had Alan gone off to? He’d been one of the leaders in the graffito of Knox, but Eric couldn’t remember his partner being around after that. Likely he’d found some pleasant company himself, or blended in with the walls and watched everyone else. Alan was a little shy - until he was angry enough to go right up your nose.

Eh. He really ought to stop thinking about Alan every five seconds; it wasn’t as if Alan was still a novice. Eric had hardly had to teach him a thing lately and, if anything he had to put the brakes on now and then when Alan’s good sense went kaboom. Youth was hotheaded, that’s all there was to it.

The coffee was ready, and he poured himself a huge cup of it, drinking it down black and hot enough burn. He really needed to stop thinking about Alan, because at the heart of it he was sure that stroking off in the shower whilst thinking of your (much younger, very easy on the eyes and decidedly male) partner was unsavory.

~

Reapers were filing in in various states - hungover or bright-eyed, short of sleep or rested. Alan Humphries was willing to bet that everyone but for him had been with more pleasant company than their right hand last night.

“Morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

The room filled with the Reapers for the London night shift and their attendant atmosphere. Coffee, tea, and beverage of dubious effect on hangovers steamed the air. Takeaway in paper bags filled the air with scents sweet and savoury.

“Some party last night!”

“How much did we end up getting for Knoxie last night?”

Alan checked the Fund, otherwise known as scribbled notes currently resident in an empty tea tin in his file drawer. “Ten skulls.”

“How much did we drink of that?”

Alan checked again. “Fifteen.”

Well, actually, the last part of the evening he’d been drinking tea in a whiskey glass, as much to fit in as to avoid losing control of himself. He was considered quiet and thoughtful by most of those who knew him, an occasional dreamer and occasional hothead by Mr. William, and the Realms alone knew what Eric thought of him.

Eric appeared with collar undone, shirt rumpled and swagger intact. “Hey, where’d you go last night?” He nicked Alan’s nibbled-on cafeteria Banbury tart and dispatched it in a couple of quick bites. “You get some company?”

Yes, my right hand. Though midway through I switched to my left and called it a threesome.

“Eh, no. I thought I’d stayed out too late so I went home to get some sleep.” Alan lifted his scheduling book. “Good thing I did. It’s going to be busy.”

“Overtime busy?” Eric cleared a spot on Alan’s desk and parked himself. His jacket was open, waistcoat missing and shirt unbuttoned below his collarbone. If Alan had to bet, his clothes had been pulled from the laundry bin.

“At the very least. Look at these - asphyxiation, explosive injuries, something called decompression - never seen that one before - drowning, too” The schedule never detailed how the injuries were obtained, simply that they caused death. “I know the Docklands are dangerous, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Eric was looking through his own book, frowning. “This ought to be brought to Mr. William’s attention. We’re not going to have enough staff unless-”

“Hello, darlings!”

Alan’s lips twitched. One typically heard the Red Menace before one saw him. Her. Grell Sutcliff had been insisting on the female pronouns lately. She came strutting in trailing a perfume with striking power, casually swinging her chainsaw in one hand and a bag from Baba Yaga’s bakery in the other - from which emanated a desperately delicious scent.

Alan vaulted the desk. “Tell me what you have!”

Grell pulled the bag out of reach. “Mine, Humph. Get that ox you call a partner to feed you.”

“All I want is a salty sweet cream horn.” There was an odd sound like a dozen people choking on their tea. “It’s my favorite and I’m really craving it.”

Grell looked at him oddly for a moment and then smiled. “Oh, I have one of those. I also have the large creamy tart with big plums, though they appear a little dry. I also thought about the beefcake for a savoury.” She smiled toothily at Eric who for some reason was inspecting his Deathscythe very closely. “But it wasn’t too fresh. Here, Eric, why not have the blueberry balls?”

“Thanks, Red, but I’m all set. Had a tart.”

Grell eyed Eric up and down, then did that hip-swish thing. “Well, that’s always a safe bet.”

“I’ve never had the beefcake. Is it any good?” Alan asked.

Grell tossed her hair with a smirk. “It’s frequently thick and can be salty, but if you get it fresh and hot, I understand that it’s juicy and satisfying enough to keep you all day.”

“You’re set on the salty nut cream horn for yourself, then?” Alan fingered open a side of the bag and peeped in. “Can I bribe you for a long sweet roll with nuts?”

“Oh, you little rascal...” Grell’s hand went spidering up his arm.

“Alan.” Eric rasped. “We’re going. Now.”

“But-”

“We should get an early start.” Eric shouldered his Deathscythe, sliding between him and Grell and marginally edging Alan away from the bag of pastry bliss. “We’ll see the rest of this clown show tonight at the Docklands.”

Alan shrugged. Eric was his partner (even if he didn’t really need one, because he could handle himself - thanks) and he could be moody. But there were also times when Grell would throw kerosene on a fire just to see the pretty flames. “I suppose. We have some collections we could finish up early in Pimlico and Westminster, then head downriver.”

~

The Docklands at low tide in high summer stank of dead fish, sewage and decay. Even at night, the evening breeze served more to stir the stench than to bring relief to the humid environs. Ciel sat atop his barrel perch, tucked up in the patch of deeper darkness formed by a cooper’s and a warehouse. Sebastian was out there somewhere, chasing down the current bit of business - the occult was growing tiresome. Ciel would almost rather handle the mundanely sordid activities of the underworld than the vanities of the effete dabblers in the demi-monde and so-called mystical arts.

He sighed, shifting as he checked the American-style snubnose revolver hidden in his tattered urchin’s shirt, then moving further into shadow as footsteps seemed to... fade in? Below him, two dark-suited figures appeared: a large, tall man in a black suit, his hair groomed into a bohemian style that belied his sober clerk’s suit, accompanied much smaller brown-haired man to a spot at an intersection of alleys.

Ciel blinked, then rubbed his eyes. Odd, he’d not seen them with those ledgers before. Maybe they were clerks for some company hereabouts? They stood just under a gaslight, and as the smaller one adjusted his glasses the flash of unearthly green eyes brought Ciel up short.

Reapers.

And Reapers getting ready for a big job ahead if the paging of the ledgers was any indication.

“All this? From what?”

“No idea. It could be anything, the way humans get at each other.” The big one shrugged. “Not our job, you know?”

The small one paused over a page, shook his head. “I know.”

“We have to remain neutral between the humans and the Realms - otherwise everyone’d be snatching souls and the hells would break loose.” The sound to Ciel’s ears was that of an oft-repeated lesson. “Reapers collect the soul, judging the life actions via the cinematic record and convey it safely to-”

“-the library where it is archived and protected for-” Those eyes must also be very good at seeing in the dark, as the small man’s eyes suddenly arrowed right in on Ciel’s hiding spot. “Eric, that boy can see us.”

Eric looked Ceil over slowly, then paged through the ledger. “Eyepatch. No, nobody in mine. Yours?”

Ciel thought that Sebastian might be annoyed, but the Reapers knew things he did not and might be willing to part with some information. From barrel to crate, crate to pallet, Ciel left his hiding place. He’d already been spotted, and if one of those Reapers had been assigned to give him the chop, Ciel had little doubt he’d ever see it coming.

“Ah, it’s the Phantomhive pup.” Ciel blinked again. Where had that ledger gone? “Where’s your pet demon?”

“Demon!” A wicked looking implement like a cross between a pole arm and a meat cleaver appeared in Small One’s hands. “Where?”

“Calm down, Alan. It’s leashed.” Eric looked down at him again and smirked. “And it’s also Grell’s cherished Sebby Darling.” Said with no less than a sarcastic coo.

The weapon did not immediately vanish, but that could have been part of this Alan’s ire being directed at his partner. “A demon is a demon. I’m not in the business of feeding other people’s pets.”

Eric batted at the weapon. “Put that away, we don’t need it yet and the demon won’t feed unless its master slips the leash.”

“Sebastian follows my orders like day follows night.” Ciel looked around him, noting three more Reapers parting from the shadows. “It looks like you have quite a night ahead of you.”

~

In a run-down half-timbered warehouse, a large iron tank of treacle made a deep groaning sound. The sides were streaked with runnels of sweetness and feasting insects. The temperature was stifling, and though not over a flame, the bubbling within the covered tank could be clearly heard. Five storeys high and ninety feet wide, the tank was filled to capacity, and the night watchman -thinking only to keep vermin from feasting at company expense had - closed the outgassing vent several days ago.

Despite the cooler evening, the brick warehouse retained all the heat of the day and the tank warmed, increasing the fermentation within. Along with the subsequent rise in temperature the riveted tank expanded against the rivets in order to relieve the pressure.

Outside the warehouse, the all-day-all-night life of the Docklands went on with teamsters and lighters, dockmen and watchmen, bunters and drunkards. Beggars and thieves kept to the shadows, slipping down cat-narrow alleys, looking for their next coin. Amongst the denizens of the Docklands night, one by one, men in dark suits emerged from the shadows, going unseen and unremarked. If a wandering gaze should pause upon one of them, there would be a shake of the head, dismissing the odd shadow as a combination of the heat and the stink.

~

Eric checked his watch. Ten minutes to midnight, the last moments of life for almost two hundred souls - and some hundred or more before dawn. “Youngster, you need to get out of here. Whistle up your pet and head for home.”


	3. Killing Time, Chapter 3

Killing Time, Chapter 3

 

Title: Killing Time, Chapter 3

Author: Cathouse Mary

Pairing/Characters: Grell/William (domestic this chapter), Eric/Alan (Eric UST, Alan UST), Ciel cameo.

Rating: M

Summary: A sticky job, and unexpected complications.

Warnings: Plot development!

Beta: With props to atdelphi - to whom is owed eternal thanks for getting me back on my rusty way.

~

And in five...

The gas given off by fermentation trapped within the tank blew to flame.

… four...

The tank tried to expand, rivets exploding from the tank with such force that they blew holes in the warehouse walls. The walls of the warehouse buckled outward on the wave of the explosion. Ancient oak timbers shattered into flinders and brick into dust.

... three...

The force of the explosion was such that it created a vacuum, immediately dousing the fire.

… two...

A wall of treacle three storeys high pushed to terminal velocity by the explosion raced through the night alleys, tearing apart all but the sturdiest of buildings, and drowned all living things unfortunate enough to be in its path.

… one...

~

Ciel was rather astonished to find himself lifted by the waist and flung skyward, arcing over and then landing roughly on a tar-paper roof. He was blown like a thistle across it, skinning himself against the roughness, fetching up hard against the back of the building’s brick facade. When he could catch a breath, one from air that seemed thicker than usual, he ran back across the roof to see just what had happened.

Where the Reapers had been was a sea of churning brown muck, damaged buildings and debris.

“I can’t fault the Reaper’s reflexes, Young Master.” Sebastian stood behind him, looking rather startled at the catastrophic mess below.

“The quarry?” Ciel already knew the answer. If Sebastian was here, their object of pursuit was no longer quick, but dead.

“Is currently awaiting his appointment with the Reapers, having been bisected by an iron plate.” Sebastian bowed. “I do apologise, Young Master.”

“How annoying. I don’t suppose that you can talk the Reapers into giving you a look at the man’s record?”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Unless directly ordered to ask them, I would just as soon not. If the Reaper of our acquaintance is on duty tonight, I think he might be amenable. The others tend to be rather of a single opinion about demons, under contract or not.”

~

Reapers did not need to breathe, but that did not mean that they didn’t like to breathe. Alan hacked up and vomited out an amazing amount of brown sludge before he could fill his lungs again, then undertook digging out his spare pair of glasses from his inner pocket. Father would not be pleased - he never was when a Reaper lost his glasses.

“Never having anything with treacle again.” He’d swallowed, inhaled and been bathed in more than enough. He had sticky where he’d not even known he had places to have sticky. “Eric? Eric!”

He moved though hip-deep, sucking stuff until his foot encountered a submerged body. Sudden death could make the soul stroppy and rude. Carefully sweeping with his scythe, he freed the record and opened his ledger.

“George Goodfellow, 43. Cause of Death: Asphyxiation.” The record scrolled through a life of deprivation and hard work, yet one of contentment and even joy. There had been some slips keenly felt and some tragedies. The human realm was a particular hazard to women and children who died in battlefield numbers. Goodfellow had buried three children, plus a young wife. Yet Goodfellow was as the vast majority of humans in that he was a mélange of good and bad, flaws and strengths, heroism and cowardice. “No further notes. Completed.”

The soul seemed to waver a bit, the record winding and coiling in agitation. It was in these seconds of collection that the soul was actually a danger to the Reaper. Alan coaxed the reluctant ones where others took indifferently or by force. “Come on. I know it’s not the best way to go, but when you think it over, there are a lot worse ways-”

A sharp end snapped near Alan’s cheek before acquiescing, as if saying that there were better ones, too. Alan sympathised, it could not have been any fun for the human. “But it’s over, isn’t it?”

For a moment the record was still, and then coiled itself with what sounded something like a sigh. It was the first in a long night ahead.

“Ellen Swatter, 15. Cause of Death: Cranial trauma. No further notes. Completed.”

“David Lewis, 72. Cause of Death: Crushed. No further notes. Completed.”

“Samuel Canning, 9. Cause of Death: Drowning. No further notes. Completed.”

“Laurence Sasher, 35. Cause of Death: Blood loss, crushing injuries. Verified damnation, this soul is beyond saving.” This happened just a few times in a career. Most humans were neither good enough for eternal salvation nor vile enough eternal damnation. Both states took a lot of effort, and most humans were just human. “Completed.”

“Patrick O'Donnell, 21. Cause of Death: Asphyxiation. No further notes. Completed.”

“Anna Wineman, 80. Cause of Death: Heart failure. This soul is in state of grace. Completed.”

Collecting the souls was not the problem on this particular job, it was finding the newly deceased in the first place. They were under the muck, under debris, under piles of brick, blown to bits, or thrown about like rag dolls. There were some in tight spots were Alan had no other option but to break out the scissors and wriggle in after them.

“Alan! Where’d you get to?” Eric called from somewhere to the west.

“Over here! I have two... no, sorry... one in a tight spot. There’s demons about, so mind your back.” The demons he’d seen were immature ones, imps and hellions, but they were roving in packs, wild and hungry. That’s what made them dangerous. “I’d rather have rats.”

And it appeared as if he might get his wish - the deceased was under a broken wharf and pinioned by a six-by-six sheet of iron that had cut him not-so-neatly down the middle. Alan jumped down, moving carefully. A Reaper’s soul was a large bite, but a starving demon could lose all sense when it was defending a meal.

“Jeremiah Yarbrough, 27. Cause of Death: Fight with demon, and terminal hemorrhage unrelated to fight with demon.” There was demon stink all over both halves of the body, too. Scents of sulphur and methane, smoke and ashes hung thick in the air.

Wait.

The scent should be dissipating with the demon’s absence, instead it was strengthening.

Alan peered up between the planks of the shattered boardwalk.

Demon.

Right. There.

It was likely looking for its meal. Alan carefully snipped the quiescent soul free and then called his Deathscythe.

He was not opposed to a little overtime after all.

~

The scent of treacle and low tide almost masqued it. Almost.

Reaper scent was the scent of death: cold stone, desiccating bones, embalmer's herbs and resins, and the indefinable scent of the meat portion of humans having come to a stop. Sebastian looked down at the planks, then found himself having to dance a fast jig indeed as a blade darted up from between them. Wherever he landed, as soon as he touched down the blade would pop up once more under his toes. Whoever this Reaper was, he was really a pipsqueak to fit under there, but a very fast, coordinated, and single-minded pipsqueak.

Bloody-minded bastard gods.

“I do not have time for dancing, Reaper.”

As if in answer the blade sliced the board directly under him, then cut the supporting beam, sending one end of the wreckage crashing into the river. In the dimness below, there was a flash of green eyes and a silken hum of an arcing blade. Sebastian jumped up and back, the blade flashing where his neck had been a split second before, then the pipsqueak followed swiftly, charging low behind the Deathscythe.

“Scavenger. Parasite.” Growled with green eyes blazing. Cut. Jab. Slice. Feint.

The young Reapers were so earnest. As demons went, Sebastian was not an old one, having been imped a scant nine thousand years ago, but this Reaper pup had yet to have two centuries to rub together. A volley of hurled knives clanged off the blade, deflected with admirable speed and elegance of movement. Sebastian leapt to the shattered and grounded hulk of a barge. A reaper took a lot of killing and about the only thing that would do the job was a Deathscythe; anything else was just for slowing them down. At another time, Sebastian would have liked to dance with this one - young, pretty and afire in the way only earnest youth could be.

“I am on an errand for my young master, Reaper. I warn you again; give way.” He could handle a single Reaper, but the Docklands must be crawling with Reapers at the moment.

“I already have the soul, so dinner for you, demon.”

Single-minded. It was inconvenient and dangerous with so many Reapers nearby, but it was becoming evident that Sebastian was going to have to get the record second-hand via a critical hit on the Reaper.

The Reaper seemed to catch the drift of his thoughts, dropping into a crouch and-

“Alan!” A voice boomed from an alley between two derelict warehouses. “Now is not the time for playing with demons!”

Playing? Really.

The blade made a ‘whick’ noise next to his ear. Playing indeed.

“Alan!” A tall Reaper emerged from the alley. “We have work to do! Stop playing with other people’s pets and get up here!”

“Sebastian!” Came the Young Master’s voice from a rooftop. “Sebastian! Quit fooling around with that Reaper!”

An exchanged look with this Alan expressed a mutually felt injustice. “So nice to meet you.” Not really, but the forms must be observed.

“How do you do?” The Reaper actually bowed, albeit while keeping a wary eye.

“And just who is trifling with my Sebby Dear?” The distinct sound of impractically high heels faded in on the narrow lane above them.

And for someone who claimed that he, Sebastian, was the one desire of his life, Grell Sutcliff sported a scent that belied that he’d very recently been grandly and emphatically laid - and often, too. He seemed none the worse for wear; beaming a pointed smile despite a long absence that bespoke some manner of discipline being applied, if not taken one jot to heart.

“You poor sod.” Alan looked amused at Sebastian’s expense. “Your existence is wildly complicated, isn’t it?”

“Feeling pity for a demon?” Sebastian bared his teeth, wondering if wringing a Reaper’s neck would do him in, and if it would be at least satisfying if without actual effect. “How unreaperlike.”

“It’s not pity, it’s pure schadenfreude. I’d buy tickets, I tell you!” The blade whicked again, possibly by reflex. This was the main reason he’d not wanted to engage the unfamiliar Reapers. Their reaction to demons was pure knee-jerk.

“He’s not hard of hearing, but he’s incredibly hard of listening at times.” The tall Reaper sighed. “Alan, cut it out!”

“Selective hearing, Eric.” Grell looked pointedly at Alan. “Can you hear me? Your Senior? Stand down, Humphries, and do it now.”

“Yes, Senior.” The reply came through a mildly clenched jaw, but the Deathscythe disappeared.

Grell was a senior Reaper? That he was one with apparently one with rank enough to merit obedience was a surprise. How very interesting. Sebastian filed that away for later reference as they made their way up the wreckage. The in camera workings of the Reapers were obscure, but over time if one gathered enough small bits of information a picture could emerge, much like the works of pointillists now coming into vogue.

“My young master has interest in the man whom your underling has just taken, Grell.” The scythe blinked back into Alan’s hands and Sebastian kept an eye on him. This one was a hothead. “Purely as evidence.”

“That’s not our concern.” Grell flicked black-gloved fingers dismissively. “If a human queen runs her watch-puppy after game, it’s not up to Reapers to help with the fetch.”

Unexpected resistance. Interesting.

“Besides, the youngster’s human. Humans can’t perceive any record but for their own, and letting a demon have a look is almost giving a free lunch.” Eric spoke as he eyed Sebastian’s neck. “As Alan’s said, we’re not in the business of feeding pets.” A ledger blinked into his hand. “Gents, we’ve a new one just scheduled. James Orris, age 64. Heart failure from shock in one minute from now; he must be somewhere nearby.”

~

 _He’d lost the money. Somewhere between his master’s house and the market it was just gone. Charles Orris collapsed to his knees in the mud and filth and screamed. All of their savings. Gone. Oh, gone forever. They were ruined, he and Mary and their unborn child. He’d given notice, been driven from his master’s house and called an ingrate!_

 _He had ruined them. Carelessly ruined them. It was his entire fault. He should have held that bag of coin next to his heart, and now it was all gone._

~

“One of us had better get him before one of the packs does.” Alan looked around; the tide of goop was draining into the open sewer of the Thames, bringing debris with it. “He might be coming to us.”

Indeed, he was, but do it turned out he came on his own feet. A skeletal man staggered blindly from the alley wearing little but rags and filth. James Orris’ face sported the open sores of syphilis, his scent that of a body rotting to death from disease and drink, yet struggling desperately to live. One hand clutched at his chest, his eyes were wide and blank as a doll’s from pain.

Ah, the poor bastard.

“Help. Oh, please be a Christian and help this poor soul...” The words wheezed out on a desperate breath as the man crumpled to his knees.

~  
 _  
“I beg your pardon! Sir? Sir!”_

 _“Yes, what-?”_

 _“You dropped this.”_

 _“I... I cannot thank you enough. Cannot. You are a true Christian. You must have been sent by an angel. Oh, thank you! Bless you!”  
_  
~

“Let me help you.” Poor humans, they fought so hard even when it was in vain. The last minutes were often so terrible for them. Alan eased the man back to a sitting position against a brick wall. “It’s almost over.”

James Orris managed a smile at him. “Got a pretty face to see me off, don’t I. Hurts terrible, lad.”

Alan gripped his shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry.”

James Orris seemed about to answer him, took a shallow breath, exhaled, and did not draw another, slumping slowly to one side like a discarded rag doll.

“Have some decency, demon. The boy doesn’t need to see this.” Alan glanced over his shoulder; Eric and Grell were both watching him closely.

“I’ve seen more than you know, Reaper.” The boy’s voice was suspiciously steady. “What you do does not disturb me.”

Perhaps if the boy had been moved to make a contract with a demon, he’d seen far too much. Alan decided that he would give Ciel his card. If one side could steal souls, so might another.

Alan nicked the deceased with his scythe, and... nothing happened. There was no record forthcoming at all, not even a corrupted one. Nothing at... wait. The body was fading. He could see the wall right through it and then it was gone as if it had never been. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, aware of the flabbergasted silence behind him. “Did anyone other than me see that?”

“Yeah. I saw that.”

“I did indeed see that.”

“I saw it. Wait here, I’m going for Will.”

Ciel looked at all of them as if they’d lost their minds. “Saw what - the four of you standing around and blabbering?”

In turn they all looked at Ciel as if he’d freshly lost his.

“There was a body. Right there. No more than a minute ago.” Grell said slowly. “You told Alan to get on with his work.”

“Are you being serious?” The boy looked as if all of them had suddenly decided to joke about such a deadly earnest matter.

“He is, Young Master. There was indeed a dead man. He came from that alley and died right there.” Even the demon looked spooked, and that meant it was a bad business indeed.

Alan looked around, desperately hoping to see a body somewhere. There was going to be hell to pay if he’d lost a soul!

“Gentlemen! Hello, young gentlemen!” There were running footsteps sounding from the alley and it was an effort for Alan to keep his face neutral as James Orris, very lively for a man who’d died right in front of him, came out hale, whole, prosperous, and very far from dead. “I came as soon as I could get through! I must thank you if you have been guarding my warehouse.”

Looking at the building behind him, Alan nearly jumped out of his skin. The derelict buildings were gone, replaced by clean yellow brick facades, with the firm name of Orris & Sons Importing picked out in black brick complete with a founding date - of 1720.


	4. Killing Time, Chapter 4

Title: Killing Time, Chapter 4

Author: Cathouse Mary

Pairing/Characters: Ciel, Sebastian, Eric, Alan, Grell, Will, Ronald and assorted OC reapers.

Rating: M

Summary: Will encounters overtime and other problems. Eric makes a discovery about Alan. The Reapers party and there is Naughtiness of a Grelliam sort.

Warnings: Plot development! Looooong chapter.

Beta: With props to atdelphi - to whom is owed eternal thanks for getting me back on my rusty way.

~

Killing Time, Chapter 4

 

Anything that involved Grell dirtying those high heels and treacle in his hair had to be bad news.

Anything involving that, plus two veteran Reapers mucked from head to toe and looking gobsmacked, was bad news to the second power of bad news.

Anything involving those prior items plus a demon likewise gobsmacked was bad news to the fifth power of bad news - as demons generally enjoyed bad news.

That all four nonhuman individuals could give a cogent sequence of events, agreeing in every point, but the sole human witness claimed not to know what they were talking about was enough to give William a significant pause. Could there have been tampering with one or all of them? He doubted that even a deity could (or would) alter time. They were orderly Beings, and this had the potential to set loose chaos with both upper-and lower-case C.

Something had wrought a change that had erased one version of a man and wrote in another. How many other lives had been affected by that change? Would the change be reflected in the records? Were records changing even now? Orris was very much alive and healthy, but the original entry in the schedule was turning hazy and fading.

“Wait.” Grell rummaged out a small, handheld box-camera from somewhere in his coat. “Let me try something. Eric, Alan, put your books down flat.”

A flicked glance from Grell to demon and one back answered as to the reason for the camera.

So.

Will resolved that he’d handle that - privately - later. That chastity device had just become a solid part of Grell’s future. Grell was a collection of senses, drives, wants, needs, and motivations seemingly all at odds with one another. It took William some extensive sorting out from time to time to stave off what could only be characterised as a massive spannering of Grell's brainworks.

Such as had happened recently, and that had been somewhat his fault.

If a death entry could be recorded by another medium, something that had not been attempted before this, they would have proof that not just the death records were subject to this type of change, if not proof of a mutual catalytic event. His ten other Reapers in the area were being told by Ronald Knox to check their records and their gathered souls, report any odd incidents, and dispatch the hellions and imps that were homing in the site.

Alan appeared to be off somewhere in his own head, the click and whir of the camera distracting him not at all, but still new enough to the job that his scythe was appearing and vanishing with the flow of his thoughts. Eric was more interested in Grell's camera than in the complexities of time, while Ciel Phantomhive thought they were all barmy from treacle fumes.

The cheek.

“Between the four of us, we have fifteen entries erasing completely, twenty-seven with minor alterations, and two who have apparently simply come back to life aside from Orris." Grell shut the camera. "The changes have characteristics seen in Orris's entry. Gentlemen Reapers and the rest of you odds and sods, check the takings for the night and compare against the death list."

Alan opened the most recent first, the one collected just before Orris - the one the demon had been likely about to eat. The record was changed, but not completely.

"Like a double exposure of a film." Grell ran it back. "Jeremiah Yarbrough's life would have been the same but for these background events."

It was odd to watch two parallel lives played out in the record, sometimes intersecting and sometimes diverging, but leading each time to a messy end. He was slightly more debased than the typical human, and his Reaper had done his duty with admirable swiftness considering the circumstances.

The demon looked all too interested in the record and was sidling far too close to Grell. The business end of Will's scythe snapped closed on thin air where the beast's nose had been a second before. The demon ducked a reflexive swing from Alan with a mildly offended look before leaping back to its master.

"I believe I have what we need, my lord." It sounded amused, which was just the outside of enough. "And as you can see, the Reapers are becoming obstreperous. I did mention their opinion of demons?"

"You did. So long as we have what we came for, we may go home and leave them to...” The boy shook his head, looking from Sebastian to Grell. “Was there really a body? And I asked about it?"

Grell nodded. “There was. A man died and was erased. Perhaps that’s the best way to put it. The man you remember was another version of him.”

"There was, Young Master. As you know, I do not tell lies." The beast bowed, and William’s stomach almost turned over.

"Allow me to clarify that statement, young Phantomhive." William spoke mildly but emphatically. "Demons do not tell complete lies, as demons cannot tell complete lies. They come from the same lineage as angels and are incapable of making up untruth whole-cloth. So while a demon or an angel will always speak truth, the truth might be only half the story or is open to interpretation."

"I trust Sebastian where I trust no other, Mr. Spears, and I trust him because I understand his primary motivation. He wants his dinner." The statement had a tinge of fondness to it, which William found horrifying. "Until the terms of the contract are fulfilled, however, I'm strictly off the menu."

Will refrained from shaking his head. Off the menu, but demons did occasionally play with their food. What he would not give to know just why a hell-beast would bind himself to the service of a little boy, or what that boy had endured in order to summon a demon.

~

Sebastian ran a mental review of the Reapers as they made their way back to the townhouse. The carriage was long gone, either destroyed or the horses run off. Sebastian opted for going rooftop to rooftop, seeing occasional Reapers about their business. It did cheer him to have seen the generally impeccable Reapers top to toe in goo.

William Spears was senior to everyone but Grell, who seemed to be equal in years if not in rank. He was almost certainly Grell's mate, the poor sod, and was a jealous one. It had been notable that Spears had only moved on him when he’d deemed him too close to Grell.

Grell Sutcliff was also a senior Reaper and surprisingly well respected by those more junior in rank. He was not management, but someone with rank enough to pin back stubborn ears and make his orders stick. Certainly he was a loose cannon, and more than slightly insane. However, it seemed that Grell would side with his brethren when it came down to human interests versus Reaper.

Eric Slingby was senior and partner to the much younger Alan Humphries. He was largely silent, confident in his own abilities to the point of being cocky, and one to keep his own counsel. He liked technology, had a healthy respect for his superiors, and was very… proprietary of his partner. There was a ‘mine’ look, the same for angel, demon, reaper or human, and Eric Slingby was wearing it.

Alan Humphries was the least senior, a hothead, very orthodox and very fast. He was a passionate youth, but one with a tight focus as opposed to a general rowdiness.

"Could whatever the Reapers were going on about affect our own investigation, Sebastian?"

There was weariness in his master’s voice. The frequency of occult shenanigans was starting to wear on him in a way Sebastian was uncertain how to ameliorate. The attempts of amateurs to tap into the power of the Dark Arts were certainly wearisome, but Sebastian suspected that his weariness and Young Master’s were quite different.

"I believe that it already has, my lord. The Jeremiah Yarbrough after the time event was unchanged in that he became and remained a go-between for the Ferro family and the upper echelon of society.” Dilettantes and dabblers, every one of them was spoilt and stupid. None of them were the equal of his master, or even fit to lick his boots. Their corpses would rot in marble tombs covered in motifs of piety and virtue while their souls burned in Hell for their pleasures in life. Yet when faced with the time to pay that price, they were always surprised. “However, in his dealings with Druitt, at least two of the victims have disappeared from the second exposure. I would wonder if Her Majesty even remembers her missive to you, as it appears an entire sweep of time has had different lifetimes wholly rewritten."

Sebastian stopped on a chimney, Ciel as at ease in his arms as in his own chair at home.

“Let me check something.” Ciel reached into his pocket and pulled out the tri-folded square of parchment, opening it and reading before handing it to Sebastian. "I remember it reading this way."

Sebastian took it from him and scanned it. It was the same word for word as he had read three days before. "As do I, my lord. There is no variation."

"Why can't I remember?” There was frustration and an edge of worry in Ciel’s voice. He of all people did not like things getting away from his control. “All of you all agreed in every point, and I remember none of it."

"What do you know about Orris and Sons, my lord?" Sebastian asked. The Reapers’ death lists were unreadable to anyone but Reapers. Even if Sebastian had a death list in his hand, it would appear to him as gibberish. He’d tried many times over his lifetime to read one when he could; all it got him was cross-eyed, a headache and chased by a lot of angry Reapers.

Ciel nodded. "I do. They're a minor importing house, specializing in bulk, lesser quality coffees, teas and spices. They make blends and sell them to smaller merchants who put their own label on the goods. Honest and aboveboard, charitable and devout, with family members in all key posts. No dealings in the underworld."

Sebastian almost shivered. "From my point of view, that company did not exist at all until this very evening. Perhaps, and this is only a theory we nonhumans are in your world but not of it, allowing us to perceive and remember the change. Someone or something meddling in time I must confess can make even a demon feel fear."

The idea that Sebastian could feel fear seemed to strike him like a physical blow. "Could we be rewritten, Sebastian? Might we be written out entirely?”

"It is possible, my lord, but not likely. While I would mark it and know it had occurred, for you it would be unnoticed." He was not lying, but neither could he tell the whole truth – for he did not know it. How many points in time could a different outcome have turned Ciel away from summoning him? The most likely one would mean Ciel’s death.

The silence was long between them.

"If it should happen, you must find me. You are still my butler, Sebastian, and the contract must be fulfilled." Ciel removed his eye patch. “This is an order, Sebastian. Whatever happens to time, even we are rewritten or written out, if I am alive you will find me.”

Demons did not have hearts, but Sebastian was becoming quite fond of this complex child. His master - there were so many motivations and layers of meaning in his words and thoughts. That unique soul, he would preserve in the teeth of Chaos herself. "Yes, my lord."

~

The night dragged on after that, even dandy kiddie Ronald Knox was muck from head to toe by the time the sun edged into the London sky. They collected and reviewed, photographed their death lists, and in the end lost only those souls who had simply come back to life. That was the part that was going to be very hard to explain. The letters of reflection were so intertwined on this one that the whole shift of them went sailing into overtime just trying for a coherent narrative.

It was, however, Alan thought, much like herding cats in that all of them had different temperaments and were trying to convey one sequence of events. He ended up doing a timeline and précis of events, with footnotes and citations to the other letters of reflection. It was the only way to manage anything that did not sound as if they'd all gone utterly mad. The final document filled a binder with photographs, individual reports, a timeline and the précis.

All of them escorted the thing upstairs and into the custody of upper management just a few hours past Akash’s sundown. There was not a snowball's chance in a blast furnace that the Reapers of London division’s night shift would miss their well-earned party.

Once they'd cleaned up.

And cleaning up took a fair while, along with a great deal of flexibility, soap and a scrub brush. The treacle insinuated itself everywhere, and he did mean everywhere. Grell swore that dried treacle worked better than hot wax. Alan almost asked what it worked better for, but was most afraid that Grell would answer him. There were some things that one was just better off not knowing.

There was a note on his corkboard about his lost glasses, and a pointed note it was. Father went to exceptional effort and Alan was not begrudged a spare pair (they came out of his pay) but having that spare pair was not an excuse for losing the primary pair. The replacements would be available Tuesday morning, and he should be prompt in picking them up.

Alan tightened his string tie, the collar on his reserve uniform sharp enough to shave with and a blinding white. His hair was in open rebellion again, but that couldn’t be helped.

“Missed a spot!” Grell singsonged, slamming into him and sticking a wetted finger in Alan’s ear – something that just made his spine twitch.

“Oiyoumadbastard!” Alan tried for an elbow in the gut, but Grell – who had taught him everything he knew about unethical fighting – saw it coming and twisted the Wet Willy in Alan’s ear, sliding an arm around his waist to tumble him down on the couch.

“Just getting the last of the treacle- heyheyhey! I’m planning on using those tonight, let go!” Alan helped himself to a handful of trouser tackle and squeezed. “Little hothead. Hands off the bits.”

“Truce?” Funny, there was no hair there. Maybe it was part of atavism genetics.

“Truce.” Grell snickered. “Your face, though.”

Alan threw him the V. It was useless to stay mad at his senior, bless him – her – and reap her with an olive fork. “Where is everyone?”

“Still putting on spare uniforms and plotting dalliances.” Grell had actually dressed in uniform, his - her - other clothes having needed professional cleaning. “Come on, Alan; tell your Senior who’s caught your eye? I swear by my best knickers that I’ll get them for you.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. Already have plans.” One of these days, Alan would train himself not to blush. Today was not that day. Grell’s grin grew wider, showing sharp teeth.

“A secret flame? Ooh, tell me more.” Grell’s hand spidered up Alan’s arm and squeezed. “Female? Male? Male, then. Hmm, let me guess… ickle Ronnie Knox? No? Good, the lad sticks it in anything in a skirt.”

Alan tried frantically to pry Grell’s fingers off his arm. “Ronald’s a good kid.”

“Hm. Who could it be?” There was a growl and a positioning of fingernails. “Will?”

“No. Utterly off limits.” Alan did not fancy getting between those two, as whoever was fool enough to do it would come to a messy and painful end or a permanent assignment to the London sewers. “And shouldn’t we get going? We ought to save some tables, at least.” Grell was a ferret for secrets, and there were at least two in the general direction Grell was sniffing.

“Eric. Whee! Look at that blush. The lady wins a prize!” Grell rested his chin on Alan’s shoulder. “Oh, I’ve known for some time that he has it bad for you - he was my first junior - but you’ve been so… hm… or maybe too good at pretending.”

Crap. Wait. Eric had it bad… for him? “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Eric likes the ladies.” Alan lowered his voice. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Alan.” Grell lowered his voice in turn. “Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen you with anyone – not at the parties, nor leaving with someone, not even having it off in a dark corner. Come to think of it, I never hear a mutter about you at all. You’re right in the thick of things, but never with anyone.”

Alan was terribly afraid that his head was about to catch fire ears first. “I’m just discreet. Exceptionally discreet.”

~

Oh, this was going to be so much fun! Grell could hardly keep from clapping her hands in delight. She’d hit the torment jackpot – and with two of her very favourite vic… er… Reapers.

“Now seriously, poppet.” Alan tried to shift away, so Grell simply sat in his lap and twined her arms around him. “You always make sure there’s lots of fun, you make sure everyone gets home and into a bed, but I never see you walk in here like you’ve come buckets the night before.”

“Get reaped, Senior.”

“Naughty Alan, talking to your loving Senior that way.”

Alan had further suggestions in a rather intriguing shade of blue.

Grell went for a new personal best and pinched those blushing cheeks. Oh, Alan was good and wound up, wasn’t he?

“Now, tell Auntie Grell what’s going on – did you misfile your libido at the end of the day, fall madly in love with your left hand, or are you just a virgin?” Alan literally blanched, going from aubergine to eggshell in seconds. “Oh dear. Oh my. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, and the lady wins another prize! You’re a virgin!"

"SHHHHH! For shitssake!"

"How do you get through the academy without-”

“I was a triple-A student in all of my subjects! I was BUSY!” Alan straightened his tie in emphasis as Grell rolled her eyes - one should never be too busy for that. “Besides, I have an excellent grasp of the theory.”

“What I wouldn’t give to see your collection of pornography.” Adding a few kisses and a squeeze of a bicep to the indignities she was already heaping upon him made the poor dear squirm. "Those manly arms and shoulders are not entirely from swinging a scythe, hm?"

That earned her a sock in the ribs. This tease was going to be a fine balancing act as Alan’s temper was flash-paper and he had a triple A in technique. Eric, not so much of a problem, as Grell could reap circles around him. However, if he was in a mood and was able to get his hands on her? Well, she’d end up hammered into the ground up to her neck and used as a tutorial for basic scything technique. They were gods, and from time to time they could be a mite stroppy.

At the moment, however, Alan was trying to wriggle out from under her, protesting that Will would just drop him bodily into Hell if he was to be caught with an amorous Grell in his lap. As if. Alan was not her type for anything but a good tease - too mercurial.

"Nonsense." Grell raised her voice. "Will? I'm flagrantly molesting Alan and he's resisting me admirably!"

"No marks and he'd better be able to work tomorrow." Will walked through straightening his tie and giving Grell a rather long glance.

"Thanks for that, Senior!" Alan's blush made a vigorous reappearance. There was nothing wrong with the lad's circulation, that was sure. "I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to do to you, Grell Sutcliff, but trust me that it's going to hurt!"

"Mmm... do tell me more, you little devilish little angel." Grell mussed his hair and nibbled an earlobe. "I'd no idea you could be so forceful."

"Red! Hands off the partner!" Eric came striding into the dispatch room, shirt half buttoned, tie in hand, hair wet from the showers, and his Bohemian braids not even done. "And all your other bits, too!"

So. Much. FUN!

Grell made herself comfortable with a certain amount of blatant bum-wriggling that made Alan just about choke. "Now, now. Alan and I have just been getting to know one another better. He has so many hidden facets, Eric, that I wonder if you've been spending enough time with him. Didn't you even know that he's a v-"

~

"Violinist!" It came blurting out of his mouth before he even knew he was going to say it.

Crap. In for a nick, in for a reap and that's the best he could do?

“Yes, I play the violin. My secret is out.” Grell was giving him a Look that portended doom, but Alan forged ahead with a defanging of the situation before it could bite further. "I've played for years, actually."

“After all this time in each other’s company and I’d no idea, Alan.” Eric regarded him with astonishment as Grell pouted and shook a finger under Alan's nose.

“Oh, I don’t play too often now. Work, you know.” Alan snapped his teeth after Grell's admonishing finger. "It was a student hobby."

"Red. Reap off." Eric hooked his thumb in the general direction Grell should go. "Or I reap you off."

Grell sniffed and abandoned Alan's lap, fun apparently spoilt for the moment, and swished off in a degree of dudgeon to find Will - but not before giving Alan his own punch to the ribs to promise that this was not over.

“I wonder what other quirks and talents you’re hiding from me?” Eric sat beside him and jostled him with an elbow, eyebrows raised.

To be strictly truthful, there was a small matter of engaging in such frequent tossing off last week that he'd had to steal some of Grell's hand lotion to salve his poor chapped prick. However, that was not a quirk. Tossing off to thoughts of your partner was a outright kink.

“Oh, nothing at all.” Alan set about straightening himself out, as Grell had given him a very thorough rumpling. “I’m an utter swot.”

“I doubt that.” Eric clapped him on the shoulder, and Alan wanted to imagine that his hand lingered in the clasp for just a shade longer than needed. “You’re going to have to give me a private demonstration, if you’re so shy.”

That did it. Once everyone was well on their way to inebriation, he was going to hide in a corner with a bottle of calvados. He was a graduate now. He was a Reaper, sheave it all, not some academy kid crushing on a guest instructor.

~

It was at a point in the middle of the London division not just raising the roof but blowing it right bloody off that a thought swam to the top of Eric's mind and floated on the whisky. Hadn't Alan, when Eric clapped him on the shoulder, leaned into it just a little bit? Running it back and replaying it, it seemed that he had, but that might be just wishful thinking on Eric's part. Blinking, he straightened up and looked around for Alan, finding him right in the thick of mischief, as usual.

"Ladies, what am I bid for this fine specimen of Reaper? Ronald Knox, known far and wide as the man you most want to bounce on your bed, has stuffed it again!" Ronald was indeed as limp as a clubbed eel, having decided to try vodka this time. It was temporary in effect, and he'd be fine, but that allowed Alan enough time to auction him off. It was deliberate, and not a little twisted, but everyone had a good time. "Not a dull moment with this lad. Bidding starts at ten skulls!"

There were protests that they'd paid that much last time, even as the dears opened their purses and started pooling their cash.

"That only means he's proven, good ladies!" Alan declaimed. "Such an opportunity to romp with a randy tart should not be passed by."

Ronald opened one eye just a sliver. The faker.

"Ten!" A lass from Resources held up a hand.

"Twelve!" came from the dark corner where Records was holed up.

The bidding was brisk, with some debate as to whether Alan should strip Ronald off and allow him to be grafitto'ed again, but ultimately the price of thirty skulls was agreed upon and goods changed hands. Three of the princesses from Secretarial carted Knox off with predatory grins.

It was funny, Eric thought, that Alan was always right in the middle of everything and then the next time you looked around for him, he was gone. Ought to keep a better eye on him, really. Even if he was no longer technically in training, Alan and trouble found each other like long-lost friends. He'd start the eye-keeping now, before Alan pulled his disappearing act.

~

Grell poured herself another glass of champagne, keeping an eye on the festivities from a small booth in the corner, Will's hip against hers as they demolished a plate of fish and chips.

"You're going to tease Alan Humphries to popping one of these days." Will took a sip of his Reaullt Hir as Grell cosied a foot to his.

"You know I'm not serious. Alan blushes. I can't resist that." Grell snickered. "He and Eric are going to be so much fun."

Will arched an eyebrow. "Going to be?"

"You owe me fifty skulls and a long massage, Will. They haven't, and they aren't." Grell dropped a hand to Will's knee and squeezed. "You look good tonight, lover."

"I look the same way I do every night." Will insinuated a finger down the back of Grell's trousers. "I want to get you out of that uniform."

"Tch. You're always the one complaining that I'm out of uniform in the first place, you bloody tyrant."

"Only when you're actually supposed to be in it." Grell moved her hand higher, fingers bumping up against Will's tackle and giving a rub though his trousers. "Behave."

"I am." Desperately randy, but for her this was behaving. She gave Will a squeeze through his trousers and grinned at the very rapid stiffening. "For me."

"Of course, why didn't I... wait. What are you d-"

"Shh. Busy." Will's eyes widened in shock as his buttons came undone and Grell slipped a hand into his linen. Oh. Very nice. "Be a good William, hm? Let a girl play." She stroked him, Will's skin moving over the shaft like velvet over marble. "So hard. You want me badly."

"I always want you." Will squeezed her arse. Oh, hell's bells. Sebastian who? "Want to go somewhere?"

"No." What she wanted was to have Will bang her completely silly, but the night was still young.

"We're in public."

It was not often that she could make his eyes go wide like that. "Mhm. Better be discreet about it, then - because I'm going to toss you off under the table."

Will glared, the degree of his erection not lessening a whit despite the ice in his tone. "You are in so much trouble that I'm going to have to invent words to describe it."

"Behave, Will, or I get under the table and suck you off - and you know how loud you get when I do that."

"I'm being threatened with fellatio as consequences for misbehaviour," Will deadpanned, cheeks flushing just slightly pink. "Let me think about that one."

"That did come out wrong way around, didn't it." Will could do that to her, get her so turned around that she couldn't tell up from down. Angling her back to the room, she grinned right at him and found a good rhythm. It would just look as if they were having one of their more intense conversations. "Chilly Will, you're burning for me. All that passion tamped down and buttoned up in a starched shirt. I want to tear it right off you and throw it on my bedroom floor."

"I'm going to put you over my knee and spank you until you can't sit, Grell," Will vowed. "Your buttocks are going to be as red as your hair."

"Mmm... you really know how to mistreat a lady." Grell wriggled in anticipation and rubbed her thumb over the glans, spreading the slick moisture she found there, her own cheeks flushing with heat. "Let me take the edge off now and you can do anything you like to me later."

"Anything I like."

Will smiled, and Grell knew her goose for cooked. Whoops. Well, in for a nick, in for a reap.

"Anything."

~

"Calvados neat, please." Alan added, "A double."

Ronald was entirely correct about one thing; any party Eric graced would turn into a complete Bacchanal, and at the moment Eric was gracing the bar stool next to his own.

"Hazelburn first cask, neat." Eric ordered his whisky.

It was odd, as he and Eric generally went their own ways at parties despite being almost inseparable other than when sleeping. Tonight, Eric had actually sought him out, made Alan eat, and then confiscated two stools at the bar so they could keep an eye on the proceedings. Even odder, Eric seemed disinterested in the frequent come-hithers that came his way.

Eric liked the ladies, and the ladies liked Eric. They liked him often, too, and if the giggled gossip of overheard mornings-after was accurate he liked them very, very well. So to have Eric's undivided attention was something unusual, and Alan was utterly tongue-tied.

Hence the calvados.

It was not that Alan did not drink. Like all Reapers, he could ingest enough alcohol to kill ten humans and only be a little logy the next morning. It was just that he was a little... inhibited. Not prudish, mind! Just on the shy side and didn't want to make an arse-cheek of himself.

In school, he'd been the top honours student not only in his class, but in a century. Top be a Reaper was a serious matter, and Alan approached it with reverence even at a young age. They would be entrusted with the well-being of eternal souls after the death of the flesh body, with not only their well-being but judgement. Indeed, those souls depended on the Reaper collecting them for life or death, since the Reaper could postpone the flesh body's death if the human's life could make a dramatic difference in the world.

What would England have been if a tiny Elizabeth Tudor had fallen down those stone stairs after escaping her nurse? Instead, her Reaper had acted upon some unknown instinct and caught the toddling infant by the back of her gown.

The great and small had been spared their scheduled ends, going on to make differences in the human realm that might not be felt for decades or even centuries. Hadn't that happened just today? Some event took place in the past that had caused a vagrant rotting on his living bones to become a prosperous and healthy merchant. It was a god-like act, and the ripples were still expanding. Who knew what fates were changed for good or ill?

"Alan, are you drinking it or about to kiss it?" Eric asked, tipping his own glass back. "You don't have to give foreplay to your drink."

"Gah. Sorry, Senior, my brain ran off with me for a bit." The calvados hit his tongue a second later, the amber liquid carrying the bright taste of cider apples and potent warmth. He was not thinking of foreplay. Not.

Eric chuckled. "Happens to honours students even after they're not students any longer, I suppose."

Well, that went down fairly quick. Alan signalled the barman again. "I was just thinking about Orris and the rest of the mission."

"That was a hell of a mess. If Red hadn't had that camera, our arses would be on the hot seat for losing those souls." Eric plunked some skulls on the bar. "Second verse, same as the first, barkeep. Just keep them coming when you see us getting low. What's that stuff, Alan?"

"Calvados. An apple brandy - not sweet, though." Eric confiscated his glass for a sip and looked a little surprised at the taste. "What are you drinking?"

"Scotch whisky - Hazelburn first cask." Eric handed over his glass. "Give it a go."

~

Eric took another sip of the apple stuff as Alan tried the whisky, nodding when Alan lit up at the taste - then having to evict Wrong Thoughts when Alan licked his lips.

"That's brilliant."

They swapped glasses again and Eric found that the whisky mixed with the apple taste of the brandy very pleasantly and he needed to stop thinking about kissing his partner to see how that would taste mixed with it, too. He was keeping an eye on Alan, that's all. At least the room was full of diversions for him to keep Alan's busy brain occupied.

Like Will and Red in one of their intense conversations with foreheads all but touching, Will's lips moving about an inch from Red's ear. Or they could watch Henry Healey and George Whitcomb dancing wildly with those twin file clerks. Or there was Foxy Knoxy himself, emerging from a back room with his three lasses like a sultan from his harem. Peter Eward and David Springley were singing ribald songs to a saucy lass wearing heels higher than Red usually sported and-

Speaking of Red.

"Um, about Red." Eric glanced at Alan. "He's not serious when he does that stuff, just trying for a reaction. When he was my senior he'd do stuff like that all the time."

Alan blushed like a wee maid. "I know. It's just that I think anyone getting between him and Senior William is going to be a red smear some night."

"Oh, that's not going to happen. They've been like that since they were new." His gaze was drawn back to that little corner booth and...

Oh, they were not.

Oh, hell yes, they were.

Nothing else made Red's cheeks that colour. Even in the lurid light of the pub, they were just flaming. Will leant in a little further, expression intent, whispering Typhon knew what as Red seemed to clench, then quiver, gasping for breath. Will's eyes closed, his jaw tightening, knuckles going white where his hand clenched his glass.

Oh, reap him now, they had.

A glance at Alan revealed that his partner hadn't missed that either, his glass stopped between the bar and his lips, eyes as wide as saucers as he looked at Eric.

Eric raised a finger. "Barkeep!"

~

The bell tolled.

"We're closing! Last bell!" The Reapers still here were in the mood to carry on with carrying on, even if the staff wanted to go home. The barkeep rang the bell again. "It tolls for thee, you rowdy gits! Now roll it up and take it home!"

~

The after-party had snuffed itself out, and the after-after-party was packing it in for the night at Grell's. Lounging on her chaise, Grell presided like a Messalina over the fading orgiastic festivities.

Alan was snoring behind the curtains, and Will was singing... well... butchering whatever he was trying to sing from the vicinity of the bathtub. There were knickers hanging from the lighting fixtures, clothing all over the vestibule, and a pair of white oxfords in the kitchen sink.

Bugger. So much nudity and alcohol. Reapers on a tear would party Nero and Caligula into the ground.

Speaking of nudity and alcohol: where was Knox?

In her guest room with the three chippies from Secretarial, probably. That boy was loose.

What a night. Hell, what a day before the night!

And it was all still there for them to handle tomorrow. Upper management would just about piss themselves, load the investigation back on them, and then yowl about the overtime. What could have happened to change time and with time, fate?

The only way this could be made to make sense was if-

Well, it made no sense at all, actually, and Grell used that as an excuse to pour herself another glass of Pol Roger. A girl could get used to champagne. Humans really had the art of alcohol going for them.

So. It only made sense if a human had somehow unscrewed the inscrutable enough to-

No. That was just... silly.

Humans and Reapers shared some common ancestry, but that had been long ago. They were constructed in some fundamentally similar ways - for instance in needing to eat and sleep, having lust and other drives in common. But where reapers were divine, humans were considered by some to be... well... to be creatures.

Noisy. Mad. Filthy. Primitive. Chaotic.

But humans, like Reapers, carried the divine spark in the middle of all that chaos.

Humans made, shaped, and created in the image of their own Creation. They wanted whats and whys answered and tried to launch themselves at the whats and whys raised by their questions in the first place. They were spirit cased in flesh, turnabout and unpredictable, able to make gigantic leaps of understanding - and then blow themselves to smithereens with that very same understanding. Humans were curious as Reapers were not, and maybe, just maybe, there was one who had been able to plumb the workings of time and travel it, changing lives around him just by flitting in and out.

Might as well throw it out there.

“Eric, what if... mind, this is a biiiiig if... but what if a human had learned to travel time? Go back, then return?”

“You’ve been reading too many penny dreadfuls, Red.” Eric had a whisky glass balanced on his forehead, lying on the floor with his feet up on Grell’s chaise.

“No, really. A demon couldn’t do it. An angel couldn’t do it. Ghosts and manifestations are out of the question.” Grell ticked off the races and local planes that had influence on the human realm. “Magi would have no interest in doing it. Feyfolk never bestir themselves until something actually touches the hidden lands. The Nephilim are conjecture. since no Reaper has taken a Nephilim's soul. So a human would have to be the one spinning back on the clock. With the right tools, I think they could manage it - and they’re heedless of the trouble they cause in any case.”

Eric removed the whisky glass from his forehead and tipped it back thoughtfully - which was quite an achievement at their levels of intoxication. “Science, then? It's all the rage with humans lately."

Grell drained her glass and poured again. “What kinds of science? They have lots of different ones.”

“They do?” Setting his glass aside, Eric pushed himself woozily up on his elbows. "Like in the stories? I read that one by Mary Shelley about the mad doctor."

“Not exactly like that, but they have... engineering... and biology. Um. Alchemy? No, it’s chemistry now. Fizzits?" Angelina had been adamant that science would improve humanity, purify it like silver in a crucible. Grell had been sceptical; souls were whimsical things, mutable and turnabout. So long as human souls were in play, he doubted there could be any actual result. "Physical science, but it’s not about human bodies but particles and things - really small ones. Mathematics, too - that’s like a language in numbers with them. There are even sciences that study the universe - cosmology and cosmogony.”

Will had stopped singing and was listening intently from the doorway to Grell’s bedroom, shirt semi-unbuttoned and tie at half mast. “Those are rare talents." Will said. "Not many humans can count to twenty without removing their shoes or perceive things that are even right under their noses.”

“It would only take one, though. Maybe two, Senior.” Eric mused, eyes slipping closed. “Right? And they wouldn’t even really have to do anything - just by going backwards, they’d change things around.”

“It gives us a place to start looking, at least. There can’t be many with the requisite abilities, even in a city like London.” Will confiscated Grell's champagne, walking back toward her bedroom. “We can start hunting tomorrow. Come along, Grell.”

Eric’s reply was a snore akin to Grell’s Deathscythe, and she figured with that, it must be time for bed. Her arms and legs were less than cooperative as she unslung herself from the chair, following Will to her bedroom. The investigation would start tomorrow, with all the attendant overtime, but for now...

~


End file.
